Storms at Sea, Anchors in Each Other

The storm started somewhere over the Atlantic.

Not the dramatic kind that shakes the whole plane, but the slow, creeping turbulence that lingers and unsettles, just enough to remind you that you're thousands of feet above solid ground.

Talia hated flying. Ezra knew this.

Which is why he laced their fingers together tightly as soon as the seatbelt sign chimed on, his thumb stroking slow circles over the back of her hand.

"Still breathing?" he asked, trying to sound playful.

Talia exhaled sharply. "Barely. I swear this plane hates me."

Ezra smiled. "Planes don't hate people. Physics doesn't have feelings."

She glared. "Spoken like a true nerd."

But she didn't let go.

They had left Paris that morning after ten dreamlike days. The kind of days that stitched themselves quietly into the fabric of a relationship—meals at strange hours, arguing over street names, discovering they both cried during sad movies. It had been magic, wrapped in the most mundane and intimate moments.

But now, 30,000 feet above home, that fragile magic trembled.

Not just because of the turbulence.

Because the real world waited on the other side of landing.

The airport back home was all concrete, fluorescent lights, and chaos. Ezra's phone buzzed nonstop with messages from his clinical rotation group. Talia had 43 unread emails from the student council, plus a missed call from her dad—the first in months.

Reality didn't wait for anyone to unpack their suitcases. It barged in, uninvited and unapologetic.

They got into a cab in silence.

By the time they reached Ezra's apartment, something in the air had changed. Not a fight. Not quite.

Just a shift. Like gravity pulling in opposite directions.

Talia stood by the kitchen island while Ezra sorted through the fridge, tossing out week-old leftovers.

"So, I guess we're back to it," she said, too lightly.

Ezra paused. "Yeah. You okay?"

"Totally." She flashed a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just jet-lagged and over caffeinated."

He looked at her carefully, trying to read between the lines. But Talia was a master of emotional encryption.

"You don't have to fake it with me," he said softly.

Her expression cracked, just slightly.

"I know," she whispered. "It's just… sometimes it feels like we only work when we're away. When we're not in real life."

Ezra moved toward her. "That's not true."

She shrugged. "It feels like it."

He touched her face gently. "Paris didn't make us work. We made us work."

Silence.

Then, tears welled up in her eyes—sharp, unexpected.

"I'm scared," she admitted. "Not of us breaking. Of me ruining this."

Ezra didn't flinch.

"You've tried to ruin it," he said gently. "Hell, so have I. But we're still here."

A shaky laugh escaped her lips. "Stubborn idiots."

He kissed her forehead. "Exactly."

That night, as the storm outside rolled in—thunder rumbling low and rain tapping the windows—Talia curled into Ezra's side, their bodies molded together like a shelter.

Ezra read quietly from his anatomy notes, one arm around her shoulders, while Talia stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing circles on his chest.

"This," she murmured. "This is my anchor."

Ezra paused, turning to her. "What is?"

"You. Us. This ordinary, quiet space. You reading about cardiac conduction while I listen to you breathe."

He smiled. "You're my anchor too, you know."

They kissed. Not with urgency, but with that deep, soul-level familiarity that only comes from staying. From showing up. From choosing someone when the wind howls and the ship rocks and the storm won't pass.

Later, Talia fell asleep first, curled under Ezra's arm.

And as thunder cracked outside, Ezra whispered into the dark, not expecting her to hear:

"I'd weather every storm if it means you're at the other end of it."